"To advise the editor and proprietor on all possible points," he laughed.
"And my privileges?"
"The right of a queen over a slave."
"We move fast," she said. Her fingers went to the cluster of delicate-hued bells in her bodice. But it was a false gesture. Esmé Elliot was far too practiced in her chosen game to compromise herself to comment by allowing a man whom she had just met to display her favor in his coat.
"Am I to have my price?" His voice was eager now. She looked very lovely and childlike, with her head drooping, consideringly, above the flowers.
"Give me a little time," she said. "To undertake a partnership on five minutes' notice—that isn't business, is it?"
"Nor is this—wholly," he said, quite low.
Esmé straightened up. "I'm starved," she said lightly. "Are you not going to get me any supper?"
After his return she held the talk to more impersonal topics, advising him, with an adorable assumption of protectiveness, whom he was to meet and dance with, and what men were best worth his while. At parting, she gave him her hand.
"I will let you know," she said, "about the—the sphere of influence."